


On the Edge of the Light

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Age Difference, Brothers, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Foe Yay, Multi, OT3, Prompt Fic, Suicide Attempt, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:18:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one thing to sleep with her enemies; it's another to make a life with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Edge of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Amorralok week at Tumblr.

Tarrlok once said that they were alike, he and Korra. He was right. But Korra was right, too—not when she furiously denied it, of course, but when she insisted that, actually, he was like _Amon_. They’ve got a lot in common, the three of them. Too much, maybe.

Oh, Korra’s certain that if people knew, they’d assume it was about the forbidden, how far both men are from everything she is. And sure, they’re far from what she stands for: from the Avatar. Not from _Korra_ , though. Even now, years later, it’s like something in her brain shorts out when she can’t get what she wants, and she can’t help a bone-deep conviction that bigger boulders, hotter flames, sharper icicles—and in recent years, stronger winds—can solve anything. Noatak and Tarrlok take a little longer to snap, but they’re just as ready to plow over anything that gets in their way, and they’re fooling themselves if they imagine their rage is less dangerous than hers. She’s pretty sure they don’t, though.

Not that it’s ever easy to tell what they’re thinking. It’s been four years since she drowned Amon, but the face Noatak turns to her is scarcely less of a mask than the mask itself was. Tarrlok’s face, of course, never was anything _but_ a mask. Still, in many ways he’s the most demonstrative of the three of them; he alters their home around Noatak’s and Korra’s preferences, arranges small, pleasant surprises, runs interference between Noatak and Korra, and fusses over their hair and clothes. It’s as much irritating as endearing, but Korra doesn’t doubt that he’s the lynchpin of this whole _thing._ She reserves her limited stores of patience for Tarrlok, and except for anger, the only genuine expressions she’s seen on Noatak’s face have been directed at his brother.

It’s with Tarrlok, too, that she first catches hints of self-loathing, after a particularly violent argument. Korra isn’t even holding a grudge—for one, her hair will grow back, and for another, she had a blast once they got past the insults and went for the three-way waterbending free-for-all.

“I lost my temper,” he says in a low voice. There’s something more than remorse in it, which Korra chooses to ignore.

“Yeah, I noticed. You know, between the part when I nearly sliced Noatak’s hand off and he was two hairs away from bloodbending us both.” Korra considers the pot of stewed prunes he’s prepared. She doesn’t much like them these days, but she’s not sure it’s worth derailing him onto a lecture about her eating habits. “Oh, I have to go to Omashu next week, did I tell you? Apparently the queen annoyed a local spirit and I’m supposed to calm it down or something. I was going to put it off, but Kyoshi told me—”

Tarrlok closes his eyes. “Korra. Please don’t change the subject.”

“Why not?” She laughs, just as Noatak walks in, shaking snow off his shoulders. It’s a normal, trivial thing, and she’s struck by how ridiculously domestic the entire moment is. She’s carrying on a secret affair with two men who are, firstly, her former archenemies, secondly, the same age as her father and uncle, thirdly, bloodbenders, fourthly, _just a bit_ highly-strung, and fifthly, brothers. Their father raised them to destroy her and they nearly did, Tarrlok kept her in a box, Noatak took her bending, she did her best to kill both of them, she and Noatak still have little more than attraction and horrified fascination between them, and there he is, warming his hands over the fire while their family sits down to dinner.

Korra laughs again.

“Did I miss something?” says Noatak, sounding utterly disinterested.

“Only Tarrlok trying to agonize over losing his temper.”

“I’m not _trying—_ ”

“Which time?” Noatak says, effectively silencing his brother.

His default non-expression is firmly in place, while Tarrlok’s seem to be aiming for long-suffering, but only looks sulky. Korra just grins at them both. She doesn’t need anyone to tell her how bizarre and twisted the whole situation is, but she doesn’t really care. She’s happy here.

“As if I can remember,” Korra says cheerfully. “Do you want my sea prunes?”

#

Noatak habitually avoids greetings and farewells. In general, Korra is annoyed by what she sees as a mixture of cowardice and selfish indifference, but this time she’s just relieved. She and Tarrlok are alone when she leaves. Still determinedly cheerful, she asks him if there’s anything she can get him in Omashu (“ah—no, thank you, Korra”), kisses him goodbye, then heads out the door, looking for Noatak.

“Noatak?” she calls out. “Noat—oh, there you are.”

Noatak glances up from the well, where he’s purifying the already-pristine water. He regards her coolly. “Yes. What do you want?”

“Are you staying at home while I’m gone?” she asks.

“I hadn’t thought about it. Why?”

“I’m not sure.” Korra chews her lip. She still hasn’t thought her way through it—let herself really think about it at all—but she trusts her gut instinct. “I think,” she says carefully, “that it’d be best if you didn’t leave Tarrlok by himself.”

Noatak’s eyes widen and his breath catches, his usual frozen mask dissolving in an instant. It’s like he’s come alive, shifting from barely human to alarmed brother in the space of a second. In any other circumstance, Korra would gladly crow over breaking his composure. In this one—no. Noatak lacks many decent qualities, but he does care for his brother. It’s one of the few things that Korra genuinely, wholeheartedly likes about him; now and then, she thinks it might be all that keeps him sane.

“Has he done anything?”

Korra shakes her head. “No. I don’t think—nothing’s _happened_. It’s just when he was apologizing … I joked about it last night, but he sounded—I don’t know.”

“I understand,” says Noatak, meeting her anxious gaze. She doesn’t doubt it. He’s—he’s much more difficult to tolerate for any serious amount of time, but there _is_ a certain understanding between them. Almost from the moment she stumbled across them again, Korra and Noatak had entered into a conspiracy to keep Tarrlok safe. It’s only grown stronger with time, somehow.

Korra’s mouth quirks into a solemn smile. Surprising herself even more than him, she lifts a hand to touch the streak of shining white hair at his temple. Tarrlok has one, too, in exactly the same place.

Noatak stiffens, but he doesn’t slice snow at her face or try to chi-block her or even jerk back, which is an improvement, anyway.

“Aren’t you supposed to be healed now?” she says. “Both of you?”

“Even the Moon Spirit isn’t all-powerful,” says Noatak, and steps back. “You’d better go. I’ll stay with my brother.”

“Thanks,” she says, and runs up to Naga without another word. She doesn’t look back, and she doesn’t think Noatak does either.

The trouble in Omashu turns out to be some miners digging into a mountain which, unfortunately for them, turns out to be sacred to an immensely powerful local spirit. Korra kicks them out and helpfully wrecks the mine with the spirit, before convincing it to leave the city alone. The queen is so grateful that she not only doesn’t charge for the destruction, she showers Korra with yuans, praise, and most importantly, rock candy.

Korra adores candy, but she’s never had any like this. Once she’s alone in her private chambers, she sprawls across the ridiculously luxurious bed and chews on the crystals growing over her hand. They’re really very good—and, after all, Noatak and Tarrlok both like sweets. Korra earthbends a chunk into her mouth, thinking.

She’s never actually given them anything. For one, Tarrlok is too picky (“periwinkle doesn’t flatter my complexion, Korra”), and Noatak is Noatak (“are you drunk?”). For another, she just hasn’t cared all that much about it. Not that rock candy will solve anything, of course, but still, she’d like to be able to do something _nice_ once in awhile. Especially with Tarrlok being—moody.

Two days later, Korra marches into the sprawling tent she currently considers home.

“Hi,” she says.

Tarrlok, sitting at the table, scrambles to his feet. Noatak, surprisingly enough, isn’t skulking outside, but sitting cross-legged on the floor, poring over a weathered healing scroll.

“Welcome home, Korra,” says Tarrlok warmly. Noatak glances up once, murmurs something that might be a greeting, and then returns to his scroll. She figures it’s basically the same thing, and throws one of her bags of candy at his head.

“What the—”

She sets the other bag in front of Tarrlok and leans against the table. “It’s rock candy—don’t worry, it’s not actually rocks, just hard candy. I thought you might like it.”

Tarrlok nibbles at a small crystal, then smiles. “Thank you, Korra.”

From across the room, Noatak says, “It’s growing. _Why is it growing?_ ”

“Don’t worry,” she says, and grins down at Tarrlok. “An earthbender can get you out. If she feels like it.”

To her relief, he looks amused, and a little intrigued—not apathetic at all. Noatak, of course, has no sense of humour and/or adventure at all, and just slices his way out, but he does admit that the candy is tasty.

Over dinner, Korra keeps a sharp eye on both of them. Noatak, she thinks, seems more drained than his brother does. Either Tarrlok’s faking it really well, or he’s had a terrible week. Or, knowing Tarrlok, both.

Korra takes a deep breath, and nods at one of the bags of candy. “So, are you two the only ones in your family that like this kind of stuff?” It’s as near an acknowledgement of Yakone’s existence as anyone has made under this roof; she can’t imagine that _he_ had a sweet tooth.

If Tarrlok notices, he doesn’t say so. “No. Our mother is fond of them.”

“Your mother, huh?” Korra chews thoughtfully on her noodles, waiting for both brothers to pick up their bowls. “Then I guess we should take some with us when you introduce me to her, shouldn’t we?”

They choke in unison. She smiles, smug.

#

Tarrlok and, eventually, Noatak, have written to their mother over the years, assuring her of Tarrlok’s survival and explaining Noatak’s.

At first, they did not dare return to the Northern Water Tribe at all, hoping that Tarrlok’s invented past would shield Sura from any enquiry. It was over a year after their escape that an increasingly desperate Noatak snuck into the Spirit Oasis and waded into the waters, Tarrlok in tow. Still more months passed before they learned of Chief Unalaq’s refusal to hand any of his people over to the United Republic—“even if I knew where these alleged criminals were,” he said severely. Then, when they finally risked settling down, they stayed away from any villages—particularly their own, and most particularly their mother. They write often, but they have not seen her in years.

“It’s too dangerous,” they say, and “we don’t want anyone using her to track us down.”

Korra stares at them. “What are you talking about? _If_ people get past Uncle Unalaq somehow, and if they figure out where you’re really from, they’ll go looking there anyway. I mean, you’ve written to her—they can just read your letters!”

To her surprise, it’s Noatak, rather than Tarrlok, who deigns to reply. “There’s nothing to read. We told her to burn them.”

Korra just laughs. “Oh, please. She must worry about you both constantly and _you_ , Noatak, she’s thought you were dead longer than I’ve been alive. You really think she’d burn the only proof she has that you’re out there somewhere?”

She has the small satisfaction of seeing even Noatak look uncomfortable. Then, of course, there’s the argument about bringing Korra to see her—what if someone recognizes her as the Avatar, what if their mother thinks …

“What?” demands Korra.

“You’re so young,” Tarrlok says. “You shouldn’t—you don’t need to—”

Korra just glares at him, and he trails off.

“He believes you can and should do better for yourself than a wanted criminal twenty years your senior with a weak grasp on sanity,” Noatak says helpfully. “Setting aside the unfortunate personal history involved. He’s been talking about it all week, incidentally.”

At this point, Korra is surprised neither by Tarrlok getting prissy about all this or Noatak pretending that the conversation has nothing to do with him. Sure, he doesn’t love her or anything—she doesn’t think he’s loved anyone in his life except Tarrlok—but it’s not just, well, they’re both good-looking, so why not. They have _something_ , and whether he likes it or not, that something is part of this whole deal. Though maybe he just filters that out along with the many, many, _many_ other things he opts not to think about. As for Tarrlok—

“Just so you know,” she tells him, “I kind of want to punch a rock in your face right now.”

Tarrlok flinches, but his voice is steady when he says, “Somebody here needs to consider your welfare, Korra.”

“Yeah, me.” She folds her arms. “If you—you and Noatak—don’t want me around, you can kick me out. Or if it’s some kind of eight-month-long-fling and you don’t want your mother getting attached to me, you can say that. But if it’s just _oh, poor Korra, she’s too weak and fragile to take of herself—_ ”

Noatak, with a choking noise, turns his head away. Korra is almost certain he’s laughing. Well, he should.

“You’re not weak,” says Tarrlok. “I just … I was twenty when you were born. Noatak was twenty-three.”

“And now you’re being a boring old man,” she retorts, and seriously considers raising an earth pillar under his seat.

Noatak glances from her to Tarrlok in that measuring way he has, and then says, “You should be more understanding, Korra. He’s almost _forty-one._ It’s a wonder he can still walk upright. I, clearly, am approaching death.”

Korra laughs.

“I do have some wild hopes of surviving to forty-five, however.” Noatak turns to his brother. “If I may offer some advice? Abandon this argument. Korra is an adult and may make whatever terrible life decisions she wishes.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I think.”

Tarrlok’s lips purse into something very like a pout. It’s not often that Korra and Noatak side with each other—as far as he sees, anyway. And it really is rare that they side with each other _against Tarrlok._ “You’re the Avatar and decades younger than us,” he says, more sulky than self-righteous. “Even in the best-case scenario, you’ll outlive us by—a long time.”

“So? I’m not going to ruin my life now because I might be unhappy later,” she says. She chuckles to herself. “Besides, look at Aang and Katara. He was two years younger, but she’s still alive, and it’s been twenty-one years since he died. So actually, _you_ could outlive _me_. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

“No,” says Tarrlok.

She wins, of course, in the end—though it does help that Noatak takes her side for the rest of the argument. They pack their things and head to the little village where Noatak and Tarrlok were born. _Where Yakone started over again, just like they have,_ Korra can’t help but think.

She glances at her lovers. Naga doesn’t like them, particularly Noatak— _the stench of bloodbending_ , he says, in a flat voice that somehow reminds her of Tarrlok’s anguished apologies—so Korra’s the only one riding. Noatak and Tarrlok half-walk, half-waterbend on either of her, effortlessly keeping up with Naga. _Right, they’re_ _ **so decrepit**_.

She bites her lip, wondering for the first time if she really should have prodded them into going back. It’s not just their home, and their mother’s. It’s the place where their father broke them. Are they thinking about him?

Well, nothing can be done about it now. She gathers that they already explained about Yakone in their letters, so there shouldn’t be any need to talk about him now. She puts it out of her mind.

Noatak and Korra halt when they reach the village, while Tarrlok, by mutual consent, heads forward to look for his mother. She really _is_ old, and they don’t want to overwhelm her. After a few minutes, Noatak unerringly leads Korra and Naga to his old home. Even after all these years—but, of course, there are some things people never forget.

A lot of things, she thinks uncomfortably, remembering Tarrlok at Air Temple Island, his head in his hands. _I thought I was better than my father, but his ghost still shaped me. I became a soldier of revenge, just like he wanted me to be. And so did my brother._

Korra gazes at Noatak’s back. If he feels any hesitation about returning to the place of his nightmarish past, there’s no sign of it in his brisk tread. He returns the friendly, uncomprehending greetings of the people along the paths, his expression warm and animated. Somehow he reminds her more of Amon than he has since she stumbled across him in the marketplace.

One more turn, and they’re staring at a small, neat tent. Korra orders Naga to stay, then she and Noatak duck inside. Tarrlok is standing at the other end of the tent, an elderly woman tightly embracing him. For the first time, Korra feels awkward, as if she’s intruding on something she has no business seeing. She starts to step back, but before she can, Noatak’s hand darts out and grabs her wrist.

“Mom, I didn’t mean—I don’t—you’re all right?” Tarrlok is saying.

“Oh, _sweetheart_ ,” says Sura, and lifts her hands to either side of his face. “I’ve never been better.”

Tarrlok just closes his eyes. Noatak’s fingers are still digging into Korra’s arm. She dares a glance up at his face; despite his grip, he doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to her at all, instead staring at his mother and brother. There’s neither empty dispassion nor artificial warmth in his expression, but something raw and desperate that Korra can’t quite pin down. Longing, maybe, but—more.

Tarrlok, glancing around, catches his brother’s eyes and smiles. “Mom,” he says gently, turning her around to face Noatak and Korra. Noatak tenses still more, and it hits her: he was fourteen when he left, and he’s forty-four now. He must look completely different. Who would recognize him again? His neighbours didn’t.

Sura’s eyes fix on Noatak, ignoring Korra altogether; her lips quiver, and she claps her hands over them.

Noatak drops his own hand from Korra’s arm.

“Mom?”

His voice is quieter than she has ever heard it, and _uncertain_ , a tone she’s never heard from him at all. It still carries across the tent. Sura gives a small cry.

“ _Noatak!”_ She takes a halting step forward, as if she can’t quite believe her eyes, and that’s enough. Noatak strides over to her, his long legs easily making nothing of the distance between them, and he wraps his arms around her and his mother slips hers around his waist. Sura is sobbing, and Noatak’s face is buried in her white hair, and Sura’s just chanting, “Noatak—Noatak—Noatak—”

When Noatak lifts his head—Korra can scarcely believe her eyes— _he_ is crying, too, tears rolling down his cheeks. He gestures at Tarrlok, who obediently, if hesitantly, moves forward, and Sura immediately tries to wrap her arms around her younger son as well as the elder. Noatak reaches out to grip Tarrlok’s shoulder, and Tarrlok embraces them both, even their lean frames all but blocking the tiny Sura from sight. Korra can hear her weeping, though, her sobs chorusing with her sons’ harsher ones.

“I’m sorry,” all three of them say, over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Korra, for once, is glad to be forgotten. Her eyes are burning, but this isn’t _her_ grief, so she fights back tears and stays quiet. At her sides her hands clench into fists. If anyone should be apologizing—but Yakone is dead, and would only torment them further were he not. His shadow hangs heavy over this place.

Korra looks at Tarrlok clinging to his mother, and Noatak crying openly, and Sura deliriously happy. Damn Yakone, she thinks; this is worth it.

#

Sura is pretty in the way that sweet old ladies sometimes are, like a gran-gran doll, and she positively beams at Korra.

“Korra,” she repeats. “That sounds familiar, somehow.”

“I’m the Avatar,” says Korra.

“Oh, yes! Our Southern sister, the Avatar.” Sura looks her up and down, her purple eyes twinkling. “Well, isn’t that nice?”

Korra’s nervous smile breaks into a grin. “It’s very nice. If there’s anything I can help with—”

She ends up fixing an inconvenient crack in the floor and supplying flames whenever required. Sura, much to Korra’s relief, seems to regard her as more convenient and interesting than awe-inspiring. She asks pointed questions about Korra’s age, Korra’s career such-as-it-is, Korra’s near and extended family (she’s considerably more impressed that Korra is her chief’s niece than that Korra is the great bridge between the worlds), and, of course, the particulars of Korra’s friendship with Tarrlok. Korra, Tarrlok, and Noatak agreed before their departure to present Korra as Tarrlok’s friend rather than Noatak’s.

“It’s not _exactly_ a lie,” she said, after Tarrlok went to sleep.

“No,” said Noatak thoughtfully. “We are not friends.”

His mouth curved into a half-smile as he looked at her, his eyes intent, and Korra’s guilt dissolved. Not for the first time, she wondered what they _were_ , if not friends, or (really) lovers, or enemies; not for the first time, she decided it didn’t matter. Her answering smile was bright and acquisitive, and neither of them were very much surprised when she all but threw him down onto the rugs a few minutes later.

She’s more hesitant with Tarrlok, partly because he is himself, and partly because she cares about him, she cares about what he likes and what he thinks of her. She takes the trouble to stop and think, she gentles herself when she’s not taking a perverse delight in shocking him. And when she’s not up to dealing with Tarrlok’s bizarre fragility, well, there’s Noatak. He’s not high-maintenance, Noatak. But he is not her friend, and Tarrlok, fussy and quietly companionable, is. She doesn’t feel too dishonest about leaving it at that for their mother.

Dinner that night is pleasant. For once, Noatak and Tarrlok both are earnestly engaged in the conversation, and happy, without seeming to put any effort into it. Korra, of course, has never been overburdened by their aloofness. She chats easily with Sura. Sura herself is so good-natured that Korra rather regrets that she’ll never be able to introduce her to Bolin or Ikki, and beyond that, is very evidently the source of her sons’ personal charm.

Korra suspects that Tarrlok’s kindness and demonstrative affection were also learned or inherited from her, and perhaps Noatak’s determined optimism, but otherwise, she seems their polar opposite. She’s as easy-going as they are intense, agreeable where they’re willful, bubbly where they’re severe, humble where they’re proud and demanding. They don’t even look like her.

When Noatak and Tarrlok are out, Sura shows Korra the pictures she’s kept hidden away—“I didn’t have the heart to destroy them,” she says apologetically, “but I didn’t want to remind Noatak and Tarrlok of … anything.” Korra, her fists curled tight, stares at the photograph of Yakone, surgically-altered and smiling, with his arm around a pregnant Sura. These days, Noatak and Tarrlok look a little like the Yakone she’d seen in her visions, but somehow, _this_ one—she doubts they can see their own reflections, or each other, without being reminded of him.

Korra’s eyes turn to the next picture, taken maybe five years later—“right before Noatak started bending,” Sura confirms. The young Noatak and Tarrlok are seated between their parents, Noatak’s arm around his brother and both of them beaming up at the camera. They look tiny and adorable and happy, and Korra doesn’t dare move her fingers for fear of burning something. It takes her a moment to recover her voice.

“They were so cute,” she says, eyes drifting to little Noatak’s laughing face. “Look, Noatak used to wear his hair just like mine! Actually, he looked a _lot_ like me.”

“Tarrlok tells me that you gave him quite a start when he met you. At first, he thought you might be his niece, somehow.”

Noatak’s _daughter?_ Korra shudders without thinking, and Sura laughs.

“It’s hard to imagine Noatak as a father, really. Tarrlok, now—” She looks pointedly at Korra.

“Um.” Korra knows she must be bright red. “I haven’t—he hasn’t really thought about it. I don’t think.”

Sura just sighs.

#

Korra had tried not to think about the logistics of maintaining a secret relationship with a pair of bloodbending brothers who were, among many other things, wanted criminals throughout the entire United Republic. Insofar as she thought about it at all, she figured hiding it would get more and more difficult with time.

In fact, it’s become easier. The first time she paid a visit to her uncle and cousins in the Northern Water Tribe, then disappeared into the wilderness for three weeks, her friends and family members flew into a collective panic—except Unalaq, of course, who never panicked over anything, and contented himself with informing her that “Avatar” and “Empress of the World” were not actually interchangeable terms. It took her a full minute to realize that he knew she’d gone looking for Noatak and Tarrlok, and with no idea of what she’d actually found, had no intention of permitting her to drag any of his people off to Republic City.

Unalaq never does understand why his niece develops a habit of greeting him with her crushing armadillobear-hugs. His children are eighty-six percent sure that a secret lover is involved somehow, but even they don’t guess the full truth.

Her relatives in the North are the ones who calm the others: it’s natural, Unalaq insists, for her to feel a connection to this pole as well as the South, and her cousins flatly point out that she’s always needed time to herself. She has not failed in her Avatar duties; if anything, she seems to have become more conscious of them over the years, and less inclined to abuse her power. She remains an affectionate daughter to her parents, and friend to Mako, Bolin, and Asami, and whatever-she-is to Tenzin’s family. They all become accustomed to her frequent trips to the North, and by the time she announces, at twenty-three, that she’s built her home there, nobody is very much surprised.

It’s not a lie, either. Noatak and Tarrlok were willing to help, but Noatak is, to her amusement, _terrible_ at teamwork, and she suspects that Tarrlok’s taste in architecture has more in common with Ikki’s than hers. He’d probably try to build a magical ice-castle in the sky. Anyway, earth is more reliable for this kind of thing. So Korra kicks them out for a day and does the work personally, and she’s able to say with all honesty that she built herself a house in the Northern Water Tribe, far from the city.

It’s just outside Sura’s village—Korra’s idea, but Tarrlok and Noatak were quick to agree—and they don’t bother to hide their identities from the villagers. It’s a risk, but one they’re willing to take for some semblance of normal life. It’s understood in the village that Korra and Tarrlok are engaged, or something like it, but objections from her family prevent their marriage; that he suffers from some kind of ill-defined condition, which his brother helps care for; and that Noatak and Tarrlok are, in fact, about as inseparable as they were as children. There are no radios, no newspapers, scarcely any gossip from outside; nobody knows the brothers’ true histories, simply that they are sons of the tribe returned home to care for their mother, just as they ought.

It’s a heady mix of truth and lies-of-omission. Korra feels a little guilty, sometimes, but mostly it’s just a relief to come home, where she’s not much more than another hunter. Tarrlok’s fits of self-loathing are growing less frequent and less dangerous, and his devotion less desperate. Noatak, for his part, seems—not happy, exactly, but not Amon, either, and that’s frankly more than she really expected.

Her resentment of him far outlasts any lingering suspicion of Tarrlok, but even that fades eventually. She comes to feel that he may not be plotting her destruction, and then that he is genuinely and chiefly concerned for his brother, and then, that he is considerably less of a monster and more of a mere human being than she had imagined, and then that he is no longer utterly twisted, and then that he can be trusted to a certain extent. She even admires him, in a way—it’s true that he’s not actually an inexorable force, but there’s still something impressive about him. She has plenty in common with Tarrlok, but she can’t ever imagine turning into what he was; it’s very easy to see herself becoming someone like Noatak.

In the end, she’s comfortable sitting around and arguing with him, even when Tarrlok isn’t there to run interference, and she’s not really sure how she got there. She has a dark suspicion that she actually likes him. Sort of. Sometimes, when he’s less of a jerk than usual. And when she watches Noatak and Tarrlok and Sura hugging each other and frantically apologizing and crying, she thinks that maybe she loves him and maybe she doesn’t, but she’s happy, and she wants Tarrlok _and_ Noatak to be happy, too.

And Sura, she quickly decides. Sura is family, as well, and Korra likes her instantly. She’s like a cross between Korra’s own mother and Katara, only with a far worse life than either. She _deserves_ to be happy. And now she is.

As separate as all this is from her Avatar duties, Korra never feels more what she should be than when she’s home. She looks at her family, and knows that their lives are better for her being in them; not by accident, not because of her power, but because of her will, her choices, as _Korra._

It’s not always big things. Korra helps Sura with healing, when she can; Sura is the only waterbender in the village, and though her bending hasn’t weakened with age, it can be a lot to keep up with. Noatak and Tarrlok, of course, never learned to heal. Sometimes, Korra thinks they would have been better off if they had. She’s seen Noatak studying it—she doesn’t know if that started after he dragged Tarrlok to the spirit oasis or before—but she’s never actually seen him _heal._ Strong waterbenders pretty much always can, but it’s not exactly something you learn by reading the theory.

It becomes a bigger deal when a hunting party goes terribly wrong while Korra is away; she returns just in time to help Sura heal a half-dozen hunters, paying little attention to the other villagers, and Noatak, watching them. It’s Noatak who takes her home, though Korra is too tired to remember if he said anything. She has to leave again two days later, and when she comes back, she finds the house empty.

Korra’s mind instantly flies to Tarrlok, and she rides in a panic to the village, hoping that they’re in Sura’s tent. Sura, however, is alone.

“Korra! Is something wrong, dear?”

“Do you know where Noatak and Tarrlok are?” she asks, not even caring that she must look deranged.

“They’re in the healing tent.”

Korra’s eyes widen. “What happened? Are they all right?”

“They didn’t tell you?” Sura briefly looks chiding. “Well, you weren’t there—but they _should_ have left you a note. They’re working.”

“They’re … healing?” Korra frowns, puzzled. “They know how?”

Sura looks down at her folded hands, her mouth lifting into a tentative smile. “Noatak,” she begins, and clears her throat. “Noatak asked me to teach him—well, both of them. About three weeks ago. They’re making very good progress.”

Korra throws herself into a chair. “That’s great! But—Noatak asked you? _Noatak?_ Not Tarrlok?”

“I was rather surprised, myself,” says Sura. She glances up. “But, you know, he’s always longed for a life of, of conscience. It’s natural that he’d want to turn his gifts to good, and he’s so talented. They have some idea of taking up my work when I’m gone.” She blinks rapidly, her purple eyes filling up. “I’ve been a little concerned about that for a few years, but I never imagined that my own children—well. They’re such a comfort to me, and you, too, Korra. I know you’re the one who brought them home.” She pats Korra’s hand.

Korra flushes. “I didn’t have anything to do with _this_. I mean—it’s all them.” She bites her lip. Over the last few years, Sura’s frequently confided her worries over her sons, and her remorse, in Korra. Korra hasn’t always known what to say, but it’s been a relief to be able to talk honestly with someone. She’s even admitted to some of her own concerns, now and then. She looks, a little hesitantly, at Sura. “Do you think they … they’re getting better?”

“I do,” Sura says firmly.

Korra grins. They end up chatting for a few hours more, mostly about village matters, and then Korra rides home. By the time Noatak and Tarrlok get back, it’s late, and Korra has finished her waterbending exercises. She can just hear their voices—not the words, just the sound of idle, tired conversation.

She leans on Naga, watching them stride up the path Korra carved into the snow. As they approach, she sees the white streak at each man’s brow, faintly gleaming under the full moon. She’s always known, of course, that they sought healing together, that they were both touched by the Moon Spirit. Somehow, though, she’s never really _felt_ that Noatak found healing, that he ever could.

He did, though. And maybe, it wasn’t— _bam_ , their tangled chi and troubled minds fixed as far as they could be, all at once. Maybe Yue’s just … helped them, over time.

_Thanks,_ she thinks, and airbends herself over Naga.

They’re near enough, now, that she can see Tarrlok’s face light up and Noatak smile slightly. It’s the same thing, really.

“Hey,” says Korra, kissing them both, to Noatak’s very evident surprise. “I hear you’re healers now.”

#

Korra, Noatak, Tarrlok each have their own room. For one, it’s all less complicated that way, and anything that makes their lives less complicated is a good idea, and for another, Noatak and Tarrlok are both so obsessively neat that they’d probably start plotting her downfall again if either had to share living space with her.

Her bedroom is comfortable, and what she calls lived-in, and they call a woolly-pigsty. Tarrlok, to Korra and Noatak’s shared relief, has started picking up expensive decorations again—he even installed a fountain in one corner. Noatak’s is pretty much a cross between a library and a monastery cell. Korra usually sleeps in her own room, and now and then, Tarrlok’s; despite the gradual warming of their relationship, she rarely sleeps with Noatak. She complains about his boring, uncomfortable room, and doesn’t mention his nightmares.

She doesn’t know if he even remembers them; unlike Tarrlok, he never wakes up, just mumbles to himself. Korra can’t make out much of what he’s saying, but usually enough to guess what he’s dreaming about.

One night, not long after Korra’s twenty-fourth birthday, he does manage to wake himself up. She’s not with him at the time—or with Tarrlok, or in her own bed, for that matter, but instead up late, reading a letter from Asami. Korra glances up as he drags himself downstairs, looking every day of his forty-seven years.

“You all right?” she says absently.

Noatak doesn’t seem to hear her. He walks over to the fireplace, pushing his rumpled hair out of his face and staring into the flames. Korra shrugs and returns to her letter. Several minutes later, he says,

“Good news, I hope?”

“More or less,” says Korra. “She’s trying to expand to the Fire Nation. It makes sense, I guess. She’s probably going to live there someday. I think it’s where her family’s from, even.”

Noatak frowns. “The Sato girl?”

“Princess Asami,” Korra says. “I hope she makes a killing.”

“No doubt she will,” says Noatak carelessly. “She always struck me as very resourceful.”

Korra stares at him. It’s the closest he’s come in years to mentioning Amon, much less admitting that that was _him_. His face is strained, the tips of his fingers pressing against his temple.

“Yeah, she is,” she says. “You look terrible. What’s wrong?” She hesitates. “A bad nightmare or something?”

“Or something.” He lowers his hand, rubbing his fingers together. “You’re sure Naga can be trusted to carry Tarrlok all the way to the city? It wasn’t that long ago that she nearly crushed him.”

“She was _playing_. She wouldn’t have really hurt him—she likes him now. I don’t think she’s even growled at you in, what, a year?”

“Yes, but what if—”

“Noatak.” Korra impatiently tosses the letter onto a nearby table. “Tarrlok is _forty-four years old._ He’s a big boy now, he can travel on his own.”

“I suppose,” says Noatak, voice grudging.

“He’s not going to do anything stupid. You know he’s more careful than either of us. And he’s not—he’s pretty healthy these days. Isn’t he?”

Noatak sighs and throws himself into a chair. “I have no reason to think he isn’t,” he says in his precise way. “No reason beyond my own paranoia, that is.”

Another first: he’s never admitted that he might be anything other than perfectly reasonable. Korra might have been pleased, another time. She just frowns now.

“Any reason for it?” she asks abruptly.

“What?”

“You’ve treated him like he was made of glass for … ever since I saw you again.” _And you’re having nightmares now._ “Did something happen? More than—” Her gesture encompasses all the little signs that alarmed her even before she asked Katara about them. Those had been enough to fuel the silent conspiracy between her and Noatak over the years, from before they could do much more than tolerate each other.

“He said he’d rather I told you,” Noatak mutters, almost to himself. “But he doesn’t want you worrying.”

He can probably hear her pulse picking up. “What are you talking about?”

“After he sent you to the rally.”

“ _What?”_

Noatak finally meets her gaze directly. “He sent you to the rally, to stop—” He hesitates. “Me. When Amon, when _I_ was exposed, I went to find him, to take him somewhere safe where we could start over.” At her startled look, he shrugs. “He’s my brother.”

“All right,” she says, confused.

“But when I got to the Air Temple, I found—” He rubs at his face. “Well, I found him lying in the cell where I’d hidden him. He was nearly dead. If he’d had his bending, he would be.” Noatak’s eyes jerk away, and he considers his hands. “And I would have followed him.”

Korra generally tries not to think of the past. She can’t help flashing back to the conversation in the attic, though. She’d wanted to get Tarrlok free, never mind what he’d done. _He’d_ refused, with some nonsense about not letting Amon guess who’d told her—as if anybody else could have—and there hadn’t been time to argue. So she and Mako had run off the rally, and left Tarrlok to—

Her throat closes. “He really tried to kill himself?”

“He would have succeeded if I hadn’t found him.” Noatak’s fingers close into fists. “It was his first attempt, but by no means his last. It’s what made our time in the Earth Kingdom so … difficult. I only took him home to the North because I could think of nothing else. I remembered the story of our princess, and—I prayed she would take compassion on my brother, despite everything.” His lips thinned. “I had to bloodbend him into the spirit oasis.”

Korra winces. “I’m so sorry. But listen, she did take pity on him. She helped him then, he’s getting better—and she’s still helping him, you know.” _And you, too,_ she thinks, but doesn’t say.

“I am not actually on speaking terms with the spirits,” he says. It takes her a moment to translate that into _no, I didn’t._

“Well, I am,” she says. “I’ve _talked_ to Yue. He’s going to be okay. We can trust him to go to the city and come back again.”

Noatak just nods. She doesn’t blame him; as confident as she forces herself to sound, there’s an anxious weight in her stomach. She’s worried about Tarrlok going through with it, but never that he already had. _He’s better now,_ she chants to herself. _He’s better. Tarrlok is better and Noatak is better and I’m okay, too. He just needs to do his thing in the city._ But she knows that unless something distracts them, she and Noatak are perfectly capable of brooding on a cliff until Tarrlok gets back.

Afterwards, she’s never sure if she got pregnant that night, or two days later, when Tarrlok came home in new clothes and a good mood.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the light, and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves._  
>  \-- Queen and David Bowie, "Under Pressure"


End file.
